


Culture Clang

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know me and crackships by now.  What if Deadlock's ship had landed on Caminus instead of Theophany? I have somehow developed WAY more headcanon about female Transformers and sex than is probably good for me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Culture Clang

It wasn’t the first time Deadlock had come to staring into the bore of a gun. Which was probably a sad statement on his life, but the plus side was he didn’t even feel a twinge of fear. He grinned, in fact, getting his bearings—on his back, broken pavement under his back, and that dark lump in his left periphery was probably the escape pod he’d taken. “Gonna use that or is it just for show?”

“Depends,” came the answer, just as cool, and his optics fixed on the face, a blue helm, small red rank crest. Some kind of security, he figured. “On how smart you are.”

“Plenty smart.” At least when it came to not getting his head shot off: he had a 100% success rate. Still, hint taken, and he didn’t move, even spreading his palms to show them empty.

Which…was a problem. He’d had to bail from Turmoil’s ship a bit, uh, spontaneously.

It was only a temporary problem, though. He could figure something out. He always did.

“Glad to hear it.” The gun barrel waved. “Sit up.”

He moved, curling up, trying to hide the wince from his sore backplates. Landing had been pretty rough, but, well, he’d been through worse. What was that saying about any landings you could be…uh…apparently dragged away from? Close enough.

“Going to take me to Optimus Prime, huh?” Deadlock figured he’d rate it. A mech with his kind of kill-credentials, captured? Yeah, he wasn’t going to just get chucked in a box somewhere. “Or are you just gonna kill me here and take the glory.”

“Optimus who?” The bleu optics blinked, confused, over the gun’s bore.

What? “What kind of Autobot doesn’t know Optimus Prime?” Seriously. Even Deadlock had heard of him. Frag, Deadlock held the dubious distinction of having been almost arrested by him back in his police days.

“What’s an Autobot?”

Deadlock scrubbed his face, not even caring that the gun tracked his movement, suspicious. What the scrap was going on here? Did he get hit in the head or something? But no, now that he looked, he couldn’t find an Autobot logo. In fact, the whole chassis shape looked…weird. “Who are you?”

“Hey. I ask the questions here. And you haven’t answered either.” The gun waved menacingly at him.

Because Deadlock couldn’t imagine anyone not knowing, really. He was trying to find a way to express that, when another voice spoke up, to his right.

“Chromia. Have a look at this.” A datapad crossed into his field of vision, a green figure, holding it out to the one with the gun. Chromia, apparently.

The optics flicked over to the screen, then back to Deadlock, then back over, then to Deadlock’s hips. “Really, Greenlight?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the other said. “Both types.”

Both types of what? And why were their optics staring at his interface panel?

“Maybe this was what Caminus was talking about?” The blue one, Chromia, said.

“Seems like it.”

“We should bring her back.” Chromia said, with a definitive nod.

…her?

***

There was something weird about this ‘Deadlock’. She’d finally gotten a name out of the newcomer, one that had been said in a tone that implied she should a) know who she was and b) be impressed.

Chromia was neither. But the datascan Greenlight had shown her? That had gotten her curious. Femmes had spikes or valves, one or the other, and their fluid containers weren’t…all the way down there. Deadlock was one weird femme. In fact, Chromia began to suspect Deadlock wasn’t a femme at all, but something else entirely.

Dangerous? She didn’t know. But she figured it was her job to find out.

Which was why she was here, in the temporary quarters—not a cell! At least, if it was acting like one, it certainly wasn’t a very bare stripped down, cell—where they’d lodged the newcomer. Prisoner? Captive? Hostage?

“Deadlock.”

The other looked up from where she’d been poking at a datapad, mouth curling. “Forgot your gun.”

“Do I need one?” She cocked a hand to her hip. She could take down another femme unarmed if she needed to. Even Deadlock.

“Hard to overpower you and take it from you if you don’t have one,” Deadlock said, reasonably.

“Terrible plan,” Chromia retorted. It had to be some kind of weird, unfunny joke, but Deadlock didn’t seem like the jokey type. And to be honest, if she was held…kinda sorta captive by a group of strangers, that’s exactly what she’d try, herself. “That work for you before?”

“Lots of times.”

“So you get your aft captured a lot.”

The face shifted, as though not quite sure whether to be insulted or not. “Enough. Too much.”

“Seem pretty sure you could overpower me,” she said.

“Taken down bigger mechs than you.”

That word, again. Mech. Autobot. Optimus Prime. A whole bunch of words she couldn’t figure out, that hinted at a whole world. But that word in particular. “What’s a mech?”

“Do I look like a fraggin’ medic?” Deadlock shrugged. “Mechs are mechs. Me. You.”

She shook her head. “I’m not a mech.” At least she didn’t think so. It would help if she knew what one was! But Deadlock didn’t seem inclined to be terrifically helpful.

“Not a…what the frag are you, then?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to ask you!” This is clearly, she thought, an absolute highlight of communication. “Look, you’ve got some weird stuff, and I just want to know how weird it is.”

Wait. That…really sounded worse than it should have.

“Weird stuff?” Deadlock stood up. “What do you mean, ‘weird stuff’. This about you and your green friend staring at my crotchplate?”

Well, yeah. “So what if it is?” If you’re already teetering on the brink of stupid, why not tip all the way over and get ready to enjoy the ride?

Deadlock didn’t seem to have an answer, mouth opening, as though ready to say something, and then closing again. Ha! Got him.

Him? Where did that come from?

“Look. All I’m saying is I just want to take a little look at it. Them. Whatever you’ve got there.” Vague handy gesture at his crotch.

“Look? You’re not a medic.” He folded his arms over his chassis, frowning, calling her bluff.

Right. Like she was going to go down that easy. “Security concern. For all I know, I don’t know, you could have a bomb in there.” Okay, that mental image was more hilarious than it should be, but shut up. She wasn’t good about thinking on her feet like this.

“A bomb. Seriously.” If he did the scorn thing any harder, he’d probably get some of it on her.

“Well, how the frag do I know?!” Chromia was starting to feel little awkward here. Okay, more awkward. Like Gold Medal at the Olympics of Awkward. “I just want to know what you do with that stuff.”

If she’d been trying to be funny, the expression on his face would have been suitable for framing, the way his jaw dropped, mouth hanging open.

“…what I do…with that stuff?” He seemed—honestly—a little embarrassed, before he recovered himself. “It’s interface equipment,” he managed, primly. “I interface with it.”

“Yeah, I know that, but how? I mean…you have too much stuff.”

Right. This was going to go nowhere except ‘that’s what she said’ jokes, if Chromia didn’t change the gameplan. She plopped down on the berth, sliding open her hatch. “See?”

Yeah, he probably saw a little too much, really, because this whole conversation, while mortifying, had also kept her mind on a certain train of thought, and her spike, in the interim, had decided it was time to show its interest, biolights glinting along its blue length as it jutted into the air.

“Where’s your valve?” The shocked look quickly got pasted over by that habitual scowly thing he seemed to like.

“That’s what I’m talking about. We only have one set. You have two. Are you…weird?” Maybe he was a mutant? A fluke? It would certainly explain the whole ‘escape pod’ thing.

“I’m NOT weird!”

It was actually kind of cute, the way outrage twisted his face. “You’re trying to tell me you all just have spikes, so I don’t even know how the frag you interface, but I’m the weird one?”

“You’re not listening.” Or maybe she wasn’t explaining it right. Whatever. Didn’t matter. “I’ve got a spike, sure. And some of us have valves. And some of us have hubs. But we don’t have more than one. As to how we interface?” The grin was a little catlike. “It’s complicated. But fun.”

He gave a grunt, but his optics didn’t seem ready—or able—to leave her spike. Hey, she couldn’t blame him. She liked her spike. She even did the white curlicue enameling herself.

“I could show you,” she said, putting just enough of a dare into her voice, as she rippled her spike, the plating swelling, flaring, and flattening again. Oh, was that new, too, Deadlock?

“You want to put that in me.”

“Scared?”

“I’m not fraggin’ scared of you.”

“Oh?” She cocked a browridge at him. “Wanna prove it?”

He gave an extravagant—really—roll of the optics, that took his head with him, as he flopped onto he berth. “Worst pick up line, ever.”

“Hey, did it work?” She grinned, rolling to her knees between his legs. “And don’t worry, big boy, I’ll be gentle.”

Another optic roll, as he moved forward, hands finding the sides of her chassis, pulling her closer, down, onto him. It was all a little much, all at once, for her—the sudden texture of his EM field, aroused and half-wild, the slide of his armor around hers, even the smell of him, subtly different and enticing. If her spike got any harder, she might have trouble controlling it.

Can’t have that, she thought, settling down, leaning forward to bite one of his lips, as she wriggled closer, then slid her spike in, slicking it down and narrow, all the plating compressed and still, barely bigger around than a finger, pushing in till she felt the stop of the ceiling node. It was warm and snug, and…wet. Slick and shiny with liquid lubricant, slippy in a way that made the mesh even more arousing against her plating. Weird. “You good?” she asked, goaded, teased, whatever.

“Hf,” he muttered. “Can barely fee---!”

Just the cue she was looking for, and she flared her spike wide inside the valve, feeling it spread the lining, then letting the spread of it ripple up and down, her optics captivated on Deadlock’s face, where surprise and alarm and then something like a hard kind of lust swept over it in waves. His head fell back, hands clutching at her shoulders. “I’m beginning to think you’ve never done this before,” Chromia teased.

“Done it plenty,” he said, but the sourness came across a little breathless, the thighs twitching against her hips. “Just. Not. Like this.”

She could say the same thing: she could feel his spike pressed between their bodies, lending its own wet heat to her belly, and the way his valve twitched against hers, wanting movement. Chromia could feel his hips shift, grinding against her. It was weird. It wasn’t how most valve femmes did it. Everyone knew you just connected your parts and enjoyed the ride.

Speaking of which: she let a little burst of current out, tripping even through that weird liquid stuff he had in his valve. She felt the current net out, traveling down the mesh like a honeycomb, instead of going just straight for the ceiling node. It felt…interesting, feedback along her spike, a delicious, hot shudder through her body, as Deadlock’s body bucked up, sharply, valve seeming to clench around the spike, and she felt another push of wetness, hot and slick, around her spike.

Frag, he was hot like this, writhing and squirming, his vents pants of hot air against her chassis. The movement, the wetness, all of it, was new, totally new, the moment bright with novelty and sensation.  And that felt like a sentiment she should maybe share with the class. “Fraggin’ hot, you know that?”

He didn’t answer. Well, not in words. But he gave a sharp sound, like a cry, optics rolling into his head as she let another pulse of current go, letting the feedback wash over her. He kept trying to make words—it was cute, really—but all that came out were sounds like ‘Gah!’ and ‘nnnngh’.

She knew enough what they meant: she was doing her job right.

And she could keep this up, but she felt her own desire, whetted by his response, begin to get a little uncomfortable, want edging into need, need beginning to demand. She pressed closer, joining her mouth with his, feeling the desperate almost bite of his kiss, the throb of his spike against her plating, as she released the rest of the current, electrons flooding through the contact plate at the top, soaring through his body, while she bathed in the hard bliss, like a solar flare, of his EM field. It felt different. The same, but different, and wonderfully so, textured and intense, and the wet heat dripping down her spike added something indescribable to it.

She waited till his joints unlocked, the overload having coursed through his systems, clearing old charge, leaving him loose and relaxed, and the mouth, under hers, almost drowsy.

“The frag was that,” he muttered, his vocalizer scratchy and undercharged.

She wasn’t ready to let go yet, bathing in the last of his EM flares. “Interfacing, duh.” But there was a little less sarcasm than she might usually put in there.

“You didn’t even move.”

“Oh?” She flared the spike inside him, again, grinning at the way his whole body shuddered. “Moved plenty for you.” Fluid slipped out of his valve, around her spike, and she felt a slow trail of it along her baseplate. It was so…wet. She kind of liked it.

“I meant,” the mouth tugged into a frown that was somehow endearing now, as he moved, rocking his hips against her, shifting the spike in his valve. “Like that.”

Chromia tried to get an image of that that wasn’t hilarious. Is that how they did it? Pumping against each other? Yeah, no. It was hilarious, and she decided to bury the laugh she couldn’t hide against his throat. “Maybe next time we can try it your way, then,” she offered, a compromise, right? She slipped off him, just enough to slide her hand against his spike, still throbbing against her, still strangely slick and hot, and judging by the way Deadlock’s optics dimmed, sensitive. “And maybe you can show me how you use this.”


End file.
